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The house sits on a corner lot, farther back from the street than the modern buildings that surround it. It is made of stone and timber; impeccable condition, for a house its age. Silence surrounds it. Not even the rattling tree limbs make so much as a whimper. The Muggles next door sleep soundly on.
Inside, there is screaming.
“Which one?” The black-robed figure asks. The voice is high, feminine behind the white death mask. “You must choose. If you don’t choose, I’ll kill both of them. Come now, every parent has a secret favourite.”
The poor woman is sobbing, her hand reaching out to touch her children, to grab them, but they are held just out of reach. A little boy, about nine, and his sister, aged only five. They cling to each other, crying, begging for their mother (helpless), their father (dead), their grandparents (left to choke on their own blood). The Death Eater digs her wand into the boy’s skull, twisting it, drilling it into the soft flesh. “Choose,” she whispers. “Time is running out.”
And, in a breathless rush, the mother croaks out, “Amanda!”
The girl doesn’t hear her. She doesn’t understand. But the boy does. The tears freeze on his cheeks and his eyes lose focus as the Death Eater crouches to whisper into his ear, her wand digging and twisting and digging and twisting. “Did you hear that? She picked your sister. She loves her more than she loves you–”
“No–!”
“But I bet you already knew that, didn’t you? Everything was perfect before your sister came along. Now she gets all the attention. And what do you get?”
There is a sudden flash of green light and the boy drops to the ground. A second flash, and the girl stops crying. The mother stares in mute horror as the wand is leveled between her eyes.
Six more deaths. An entire family was dead. Two of them were children.
He couldn’t keep doing this. He knew what he had to do.
Albus scrubbed his face. His knees ache, his hip stiff. He wanted to sit down, he wanted to close his eyes. All this killing, all this dying. The Wizarding World was ripping itself apart. A few more years of this and there would be nothing left to fight over. There would be no one left. The words circled in his brain, and he clung to it, to his logic, to shut his eyes and hide from the monstrous thing he was about to do.
He descended down into the dungeons, drifting towards the potions classroom, where his newest staff member struggled to keep control. He lifted his hand, he pushed the door open.
Severus Snape stood helplessly at the front of the classroom as a dozen hands trimmed in scarlet-and-gold waved in the air to the calls of “Professor Snivellus! Professor Snivellus! I know the answer! Pick me! Snivy! Snivellus!” Barely twenty, that was all, barely twenty, and looking so much like a child, like the children laughing and jeering in front of him. That familiar wave of disgust rose up at the sight of him, and he knew that if he went through with his plan he would likely lose not one, but two of his pawns.
So be it. If Snape ran, then Albus would hunt him down and ensure he spent the rest of his life in Azkaban. If he stayed… well, he’ll cross that bridge when he came to it. In the meantime–
Albus fixed a genial smile onto his face and swooped in to save his helpless potions master from a couple of energetic boys, and the look of gratitude on Snape’s face was almost worth it.
Thoughts whisper. Thoughts scream. Thoughts weave in and out, a dozen different voices.
Lily is terrified. She thinks only of her child. Remus is worried Greyback will kill him if he catches him sniffing around his pack again. Sirius and James are conspiring. They’ve cooked up a plan, something so secret, so devious they’ve sworn not to tell anyone. Not Lily. Not Albus.
You don’t really think Moony would–
I don’t want to think it, but he’s been growing distant for years, ever since– well, you know– that night.
The Headmaster wants him to spy on Greyback.
He seems to be getting awfully cosy with those werewolves.
Maybe he can’t help it. Maybe it’s just biology. Can a stag, a dog, and a rat really ever be a pack to him?
So what are we going to do?
Easy. We tell the Order that I’m your Secret Keeper, just like we all agreed on. But instead of using me, we get Wormy to be your Keeper instead. If Remus really is a traitor, he’ll send the Death Eaters after me. If he’s not, well, it’s just extra security. Everyone knows how close we are. Of course the Death Eaters will think it's me. Hardly anyone suspects Wormy of being a part of the Order anyway. It’s the perfect cover.
Peter Pettigrew is soft. Peter Pettigrew is weak. Albus Dumbledore leaks Peter’s involvement with the Order of the Phoenix, where he can be found, what information he knows, and within a month the Potters are dead.
Albus Dumbledore had betrayed the Potters, offered up little Harry to Tom on a silver tray, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist. Tom would go to that house, he would kill that baby, and in doing so he will kill himself. Prophecy fulfilled.
The Poisoned Pawn is a move used in chess, where a pawn is said to be “poisoned” because its capture can result in an even greater loss for one’s opponent. To save the lives of many, you must sacrifice the life of one.
And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...
Albus did not want Harry Potter to die. He remembered holding him in his arms when he was only a few weeks old, he remembered the little tyke tugging on his beard, he remembered the weight of him, the warmth as he snuggled closer, his eyelids sliding shut as he slipped off into sleep. And he remembered Amanda Bones lying in her tiny coffin.
One child. All he needed to do was sacrifice one child, and this madness would end. It was a gamble, a risk; he had a backup–there was still the Longbottom boy–if his plan failed, but he was desperate. He needed to end this war before any more children could die. Just one more death. Just one more child.
And Harry lived!
Albus clung to that. Harry Potter survived the attack. He must have done something right, it couldn’t all be bad, if Harry Potter was alive. The boy would live… at least for a few more years.
He took the baby from Hagrid. Felt the weight of him, the heat coming from his little body, how he nestled into his snow-white beard, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. At the scar.
There was still a possibility… (but Albus didn’t truly believe it); maybe the boy wasn’t a horcrux; maybe he would grow up, get married, start a family, have a little boy all his own. Not all of us live long enough to fill a novel, he thought distantly as he placed the boy on his aunt’s doorstep. Some of us only become poems. He thought of Amanda and Ariana.
Teach him Occlumency. Ha! Severus couldn’t even teach the boy potions. How was he supposed to teach him Occlumency?
The thought of the boy stumbling through his memories like an untrained hippogriff is enough to send a shudder of revulsion through him. His thoughts are already scraped raw and left bare. Day after day, the Dark Lord tears through him, digging into the grey matter of his brain, not because he distrusts Severus but simply because he can; and later, later, when he’s too tired to speak, too hurt, Dumbledore slips past, slices through like a butter knife, picking over and examining what’s left. “I must be sure, Severus,” he says. Because even now he wonders if the Headmaster truly trusts him.
Does he do this to everyone? Dumbledore is subtle enough to get away with it. Severus doubts if anyone would be able to detect it if he did. Does Dumbledore rummage through Harry’s memories? Minerva’s? Black’s and Lupin’s and–
Severus blinks. He’s tired. He must be tired. It’s such a silly, stupid thought.
Albus was so sure Lupin would never go crawling back to Black. But he did, and– why was he so confident? When every logical–
Severus had stood there, in his office, his arms wrapped around his torso, his fingers digging into his clothes as if afraid they would be torn from his body. Dumbledore stared at him blandly from his desk. “He’s hiding something,” Severus insisted. “He’s trying to protect Black.”
“My dear boy, why would Remus do such a thing? Sirius Black killed the Potters–”
“I know what he did!” Severus snapped. “And Lupin doesn’t care. Merlin, the man tried to turn him into a murder weapon and Lupin still crawled on his belly for him, begging for his scraps! I tried to ask Lupin if he knew how Black might have escaped, and he lied– he looked away and he lied, right to my face. He knows how Black did it, and he somehow knows that I’m a Legilimens. Did you tell him?”
And Dumbledore had sighed with exhaustion, his expression that of a tired father with a recalcitrant child. “Severus, this is paranoia. I know it must be second nature to you, as a spy, but you must realize that this is bordering on madness–”
He wasn’t worried because it didn’t matter. Black was never after Potter and Dumbledore knew it, so who cared if Lupin was aiding and abetting him? And if Black somehow managed to clear his name, all the better. Two more pieces to add to the chessboard.
His first instinct is to shove the thought away. Paranoia. That’s what it is. That’s what everyone calls it. You can trust Dumbledore. His hands are dirty, but it’s for the greater good. It’s easier just to go along. You have a place here. Minerva is your friend. If you speak out, you’ll lose everything. You might fuck up his plan. Because he has a plan. He’s going to save the world. This is a war, and there are casualties in war.
The pieces are slotting into place. He doesn’t know what Dumbledore intends to do, but he knows, with sudden clarity, what Dumbledore did do. And what he didn’t.
I wish I was dead! He had screamed. Everything he worked for, everything he had done and allowed to be done to him, and nothing, nothing. She was dead, the one person who ever gave a damn about him was dead.
Severus goes to Grimmauld Place knowing that Black might just kill him as a traitor.
Well, it only took him twenty years, Severus thinks when he opens the door and sees a wand pointed at his face.
“Snape,” Black says, looking surprised. He doesn't lower his wand.
“Black,” Severus acknowledges. “We need to talk.”
“Really? You want to talk? I seem to recall you trying to feed me to a Dementor.”
“And you tried to feed me to a werewolf, so I think that makes us square,” Severus can’t help but snap, but then he takes a breath, re-focuses, and says, “I think Potter is in trouble.”
That shuts Black up. He takes the wand away. “Harry? Is he okay? Where is he–”
Severus holds up a hand. “I need to ask you something, and it’s important that you answer and answer honestly: did Pettigrew tell you how he became a Death Eater?” If only he hadn’t been knocked out for that conversation–
“Just some nonsense about how they threatened him, and it was inevitable, and whatever bullshit he could come up with on the fly. Why? What does this have to do with Harry? Snape–”
“The Death Eaters threatened him? They had approached him first?”
“I don’t know! Damn it, Snivellus, answer the–”
“We didn’t know about him,” Severus interrupts. “I sat next to the Dark Lord at meetings, and no one ever mentioned seeing Pettigrew at a raid. We all thought he had tucked tail and run. He was nothing to us. As lowly as a worm. We wouldn’t have wasted valuable resources targeting fucking Pettigrew of all people–”
“So, the git was lying. He ran straight to the Death Eaters the moment he became James and Lily’s Secret Keeper–”
“And if he wasn’t lying, Black? Do you even know what that means?” Severus shakes his head. “We wouldn’t have gone after him unless we had a reason to.”
He could almost see the realization light up behind his eyes. “You think there’s a traitor in our midst.”
“I think–” Severus takes a deep breath. “I think Dumbledore is a great Legilimens. I think he knew about Pettigrew. I think he knew Lupin was turning a blind eye to your antics. I think he didn’t care, because he knew you were never the Secret Keeper. I think he had a reason for wanting to end the war early and when a prophecy landed in his lap he had suddenly gained an ace up his sleeve.” The wand is pointing at his face again. “Black. Who do you care more about: Potter or Dumbledore?”
The question is easy for Black to answer.
Harry watches as Cho Chang storms out of Madam Puddifoots with tears in her eyes.
Well, that was a disaster.
It’s still too early to meet Hermione at the Three Broomsticks, but everyone is looking at him and he has to leave. He can’t stay here. So, he gets up. He walks out the door.
And runs right into Snape.
Fuck my life.
“Mr Potter,” the man drawls out. “I believe you are currently missing detention.”
“Wha–” Harry gapes at him. Detention!? He didn’t have detention! That lying, son-of-a–
Snape smirks evilly. “If you would follow me.”
Harry stomps behind Snape, his face heating as the students point and giggle as they pass. To have Professor Snape come and fetch him like he was some runaway firstie! He’s so incensed that he doesn’t realize at first that Snape isn’t heading in the direction of the castle. He’s veered off the well-trod main roads of Hogsmeade; instead he goes down alleyways, up side streets, almost at random as if he thinks they’re being tailed.
They’re just past the village now, in the rolling countryside, and Snape takes out his wand, flicks it, and–
It’s a car. A Muggle car. Harry’s brain stutters to a halt as he watches Snape open the driver’s side door. He hears a happy yelp and there’s Padfoot, bouncing around in the backseat like Snape’s his new best friend. “Well?” Snape cocks a brow at him. “Aren’t you going to get in?”
This is crazy. It’s crazy, but damn him Harry wants to see how this ends. He gets into the passenger seat. Padfoot pushes his body between him and the professor, licks his face happily. “You know how to drive?” Harry asks, pushing Padfoot away as he watches Snape pull out onto the street.
“Of course. I am a half-blood.”
“Wha–”
Padfoot melts into Sirius, and he leans over, draping his arms across Harry’s seat. “Oh, yeah, he’s practically a Muggle. Grew up in the same neighborhood as your Mum. You should ask him about that sometime.”
“Seatbelt,” is all Snape says and Sirius rolls his eyes, leans back, and buckles up.